


Reparation

by Anonymous



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Aphasia, Brain Injury, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Epilepsy, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Headaches, Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, mediocrely researched medicine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:48:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22338073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Waking up from his induced coma was only the beginning. Now Dick has to piece his life back together. That includes relearning how to walk, how to eat, how to speak, and how to interact with the group of strangers that call themselves his family.AKA, a different take on Dick getting shot in the head that involves fewer bad nicknames
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 59
Kudos: 388
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a doctor nor a particularly good researcher, so please forgive any medical inaccuracies

I.

The first thing Dick saw was the man. He stood against the far wall, eyes unblinking and shoulders stiff. Everything else slowly faded in: the hiss of the ventilator, the heart monitor beeping close to his ear, the bone deep pain that made him shudder. Harsh light speared down from the ceiling, diluted only by the bags of clear fluid dangling above his head. He felt underwater. A hand reached over him, giving one of the bags a good squeeze. Cold flooded his veins. A metallic bitterness rested on his tongue. His eyes felt heavy. He looked to the wall, and the man was still there, stare unwavering. Dick held his gaze for as long as he could. He wondered if the man would ever blink, would ever move. 

Dick closed his eyes.

II.

“Can you say my name, Richard?”

Bruce watched his eldest’s left eye wander up to meet the doctor’s, his right eye slower and drooped. His left hand pulled idly at a loose thread on his gown, his right arm limp at his side. He looked like a marionette someone had cut half the strings to. 

“You… um…” Dick murmured. A few seconds passed before the doctor interjected gently. 

“Do you not remember, or is it hard to think of the word?” the doctor asked. 

“Think… no word,” Dick said.

“Well, it begins with an ‘R’,” the doctor said. “It’s pronounced the same way as the word for the thing we drive on.”

Bruce watched Dick’s lips form silently around the letter ‘R’.

“Try sounding it out,” the doctor offered. 

“ _Rruh - rruh - rruh -”_

“Next sound is an ‘o’.”

“ _Rro - rro -_ Rhodes?” Dick tried. The doctor smiled. 

“Good job, Richard. You got it much faster than yesterday, you know?”

Dick nodded weakly.

“Now,” the doctor continued, “can you tell me what happened to you?”

Dick looked down at his lap. Upon the doctor’s arrival, the nurses had dragged Dick into a seated position at the edge of the bed so the doctor could test his strength. His legs, skinny and pale beneath the polka dotted hospital gown, applied little resistance when Dr. Rhodes pressed down on his knees. His feet, tucked in yellow compression socks, barely brushed the floor. 

“I know we’ve been over all this, Richard,” the doctor said, “but I need to keep asking to know whether your memory is improving.”

Dick raised his head. 

“I, uh-” Dick released the loose thread beneath the tray table to extend his thumb and forefinger. His mouth opened and closed a few times. “G-gun?”

Bruce nodded along with the doctor. 

“Yes, you were shot with a gun,” the doctor said. “Do you remember any of it?”

Dick shook his head.

“Use your words,” Bruce rumbled from his position by the door. He ignored the doctor’s glance. 

“No,” Dick amended quietly. The doctor offered him a sympathetic smile.

“That’s okay. It’s normal for you to not remember the incident. I’m just making sure you can remember what the nurses and I have told you.” The doctor looked down at her clipboard, making a small mark. “Now,” she said, “how old are you, Richard?”

Dick’s lips tightened, the left end dipping down into a grimace.

“I… I can’t.”

“Try,” the doctor and Bruce said together. 

Dick looked down at his left hand, using his fingers to count. Bruce watched as Dick stopped at twenty-five, only to start over. Again, he stopped at twenty-five. The number failed to form on his lips. 

“I can’t,” Dick said again. He curled his left arm to wrap around himself at the waist. 

“Twenty-five,” the doctor said quietly. “You’re twenty-five.”

Bruce stepped out of the room.

*

“Mr. Wayne,” Dr. Rhodes began carefully, “I know it is not my place, but Richard was quite disheartened by your absence.”

Bruce grunted, eyes scanning the family pictures tucked beneath the glass cover of Dr. Rhode’s desk. Several were taken at a ski slope. 

“He’s not motivated enough,” Bruce said. “He needs to _want_ to get better.”

Dr. Rhodes smiled softly.

“Mr. Wayne, he’s only been fully awake for ten days.”

Bruce was aware of the timeline, but Dick couldn’t be compared to the average patient. He was at his peak fitness before getting shot. He had overcome burns, hypoxia, hypovolemia, and built immunity to over three dozen poisons as a teenager. Even among his kids, Dick always healed the fastest. 

“Please update me on Dick’s status,” Bruce said. Dr. Rhodes thinned her lips. 

“Well,” she said, flipping through her notes, “his anterograde amnesia seems to be fading. He’s been able to recognize you for the past six days, and he’s recognized me the past four. He’s also starting to remember some of the nurses.”

“That’s good,” Bruce commented. Dr. Rhodes nodded. 

“Yes, well, some of the smaller details are still slipping by. For instance, after you left the room, he wasn’t able to recall what he had for lunch fifteen minutes ago, nor which nurse had helped him sit up in bed.”

“But he’s getting better,” Bruce said. His voice was firm.

“Yes,” Dr. Rhodes agreed. “Considering his progress with names, the anterograde seems temporary.” She paused. “On the other hand, with retrograde-”

“Perhaps he’s just unable to express his memories verbally,” Bruce suggested. “Maybe if we give the aphasia time-”

“The aphasia is not the problem,” Dr. Rhodes stated, reaching a hand across the desk to settle over Bruce’s wrist. “I’m sorry Mr. Wayne, I understand this has been rough for you, but Richard has simply shown no signs of improvement with his retrograde amnesia.” She paused for a moment, likely to give Bruce a chance to mull over her words. Bruce could only focus on the cold, bitter perfume that came with her touch. “Of course,” Dr. Rhodes continued, “we need more time to be sure, but Richard is still unable to recall even critical memories, like the circumstances of his adoption, or meeting his siblings.”

Her palm withdrew from Bruce’s wrist. She looked at him expectantly. Bruce’s eyes drifted further down the notes she had spread on the desk. 

“What about physical therapy?” Bruce asked. “Is there anyway we can speed that up?”

*

Since Dick’s first day coherently awake, Bruce had been bringing with him the holiday card. The card was two years old, with both Damian and Tim a few inches shorter and Alfred a little less grey, but it was the most up to date photo Bruce could find with everyone in it, even Jason. 

As soon as the doctor left to complete the rest of her rounds, Bruce slid the photo onto the tray table. Dick grimaced. 

“Who is this,” Bruce quizzed, finger poised over Tim’s face. He was smiling and wearing a santa hat. Dick leaned in closer. Two seconds of silence passed. 

“T-tim,” Dick said hesitantly. 

“Codename?” Bruce asked. 

“Red,” Dick said immediately, then traced letters onto his lap. “R - ro - rob - robin?”

“Age?”

Dick frowned. He counted on his left hand, then raised it to trace a shaky ‘17’ onto the tray table. 

“Say it outloud, Dick,” Bruce urged. Dick’s mouth opened and closed. He bit his lip.

“We’re going to have to work on that,” Bruce said, then slid his finger over to Damian. “Who’s this?”

Dick’s mouth formed around the letter ‘D’ a few times before emitting a frustrated huff. 

“Dick,” Bruce said sternly. 

“I can’t,” Dick said. 

“You can.”

They stared at each other. Dick looked away. 

“It’s _Damian_ , Dick. Damian,” Bruce said. He sighed. “Codename?”

Dick traced the letters again on is lap. 

“Ro - rob - rob _in,_ ” Dick said. 

“Age?”

Bruce received a blank look.

“Eleven,” Bruce said. “Almost twelve.”

His finger shifted over to Cass. 

“Cass,” Dick said automatically. Dick had picked up Cass’s name particularly quick, likely due to its simplicity. Everything else about her seemed to evade him, though, as his lips shaped vaguely around a ‘B’. 

“Black bat,” Bruce filled in. “Twenty years old.” He thinned his lips. Dick looked down. Bruce caught his chin, tilting his head up. Dick stared at him with slightly widened eyes. “Pay attention, Dick,” Bruce stated. “You’re meeting them tomorrow. You need to have them memorized by then.”

*

“Tim,” Dick said slowly, looking at Tim. Tim’s eyes widened a bit. Dick turned to Damian. His mouth fell open, but no words arrived. 

“Starts with the same letter as you,” Bruce said, placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder. Damian shrugged it off. Dick’s left hand traced a ‘D’ against his lap. 

“D - D -”

“It’s _Damian_ ,” Damian interrupted, scowling. “Damian Wayne al Ghul.”

Dick looked at him in complete bewilderment. 

“This is ridiculous,” Damian muttered, storming out of the room. His shoes squeaked along the hall. Tim looked to the floor awkwardly. Dick wrapped his arm around himself. It was just after twelve, and the sun was its most yellow. The rehab floor was quiet. Most of the other patients were napping. 

Bruce gave Tim a small shove. 

“Uh, are you doing good, Dick?” Tim asked. He had trouble meeting Dick’s eyes. Dick offered him a small smile, but only the left side of his face managed to lift. 

“Yeah,” Dick replied simply. “What…” Dick’s face scrunched in concentration. “You… okay?”

“I’m okay,” Tim said. He rubbed his arm. Down the hall, an elevator chimed. 

“Maybe I should go find him,” Tim said. “Before he does anything stupid.” 

He slipped out of the room. Dick’s eyes followed Tim to the doorway before drifting to Bruce. 

“Cass?” Dick asked. The girl was noticeably absent. 

“She couldn’t make it,” Bruce said. “Maybe next time.”

*

“That was very rude, Damian.”

Damian scowled from the backseat. Tim ignored them both, eyes glued to the scenery beyond the passenger seat window. 

“How hard is it to say my name?” Damian demanded. “I finished _Don Quixote_ when I was six!”

“You didn’t have a bullet in your head,” Bruce stated, then paused, wondering if he’d been too harsh when Damian quickly fell silent. “I expect you to hold a proper conversation next time you visit. You too, Tim.”

“I was nice,” Tim insisted. “I asked how he was doing.”

“You left,” Bruce stated. “Dick was very upset.”

“No he wasn’t,” Tim said, crossing his arms. “He doesn’t even remember us.”

“You’re certainly not helping the fact.”

“Cassandra didn’t visit,” Damian pointed out. 

“Yeah,” Tim chimed in. “At least we’re doing better than her.”

Normally so agreeable, Cass refused to join their visit, despite being home at the manor. When Bruce asked why, Cass simply stated she wanted to watch TV. Bruce sent her a very disappointed look, but she didn’t budge. 

“Cass is twenty years old,” Bruce said. “She’s an adult. She can decide whether she wants to visit or not.”

“I’m not a child!”

“I’m _seventeen._ ”

“You are minors and dependents,” Bruce said. “I expect you both to be nicer next time.”

“As if you’re any better,” Tim muttered.

III.

According to Dr. Rhodes, Dick spent eight weeks total in the ICU, seven of them in a coma and one wavering in and out of consciousness. When he was finally able to stay awake for a couple of hours at a time, they promoted him ten stories up to Rehab. 

Dick had no memory of those eight weeks other than the faint echo of a ventilator in his ear each time the air conditioning came on. To Dick, the world had only ever consisted of Rehab. He quickly grew accustomed to the flow and rhythm of the floor. At eight AM sharp, Dr. Rhodes arrived with her army of nurses, the noisy clattering of pills preceding their entrance. Once Dr. Rhodes began her questioning, the nurses pulled aside the covers and stretched his legs. They didn’t leave until Dick swallowed his mosaic of pills, their eyes following the precarious bobble of his throat.

After Dr. Rhodes came the dietician, a large, muscular man who also watched Dick closely, arms ready to pull Dick into a heimlich maneuver with each bite. Dick wasn’t sure his ribs would survive a heimlich maneuver from those arms, so he chewed carefully. Once the dietician left, the physical therapists carted him six stories down to physical therapy. They were working on standing. One hour later, they carted him back up to Rehab, where the dietician awaited with lunch and more pills. After lunch came Dr. Rhodes again, then the speech therapists, the occupational therapists, and the dietician for dinner. They were as constant as the scenery outside his window, the sun reliably drifting from east to west and the shadows fluctuating from long to short to long. There was only one variable in his schedule: Bruce Wayne. His father. 

Dick still wasn’t sure what to make of the man. His touch was gentle but distant, his voice gruff but quiet. According to Dr. Rhodes, Bruce had introduced himself to Dick six times before Dick finally started memorizing him. Dick wasn’t sure what Bruce said to him the first six times, but the seventh time - the _first_ time, from Dick’s point of view - Bruce hovered like a shadow behind Dr. Rhodes, rumbling, “I’m your adoptive father, you call me Bruce,” with a slight dip of his head.

Bruce sometimes came in the afternoon, sometimes at night. In the afternoons, he talked with Dr. Rhodes, watched Dick perform his activities, and went over the holiday card with Dick when no one was around. When Dick’s arm shook too hard, Bruce fed him his applesauce. At night, Bruce snuck in with a stolen key card tucked in his sleeve and a hardened look in his eyes. It was in those nighttime visits that Dick learned of Batman, of Robin, of Nightwing, and more names he couldn’t memorize. Bruce’s face was always more serious then, the lines beneath his eyes and around his mouth severe without the softening aid of sunlight. “Do you understand, Dick? This is very serious,” Bruce would say, gripping Dick’s wrist until it hurt. “Yes,” Dick would reply, partly because he lacked the words to articulate his confusion, and partly because he was a little afraid of the man, who seemed so much more unfamiliar at night.

The day after his siblings’ visit, Bruce returned more determined than ever for Dick to master the names on the holiday card, informing him that Tim and Damian would visit again the following day. At some point, Bruce’s hand gripped Dick’s wrist, his palm warm and calloused as it guided Dick’s pointer finger through the photograph. When Dick repeatedly missed Damian’s name, Bruce’s grip grew tight enough to hurt. Only when Dick flexed his wrist did Bruce seem to take notice, silently withdrawing his hand from the tray table, leaving Dick’s wrist cold. 

After two rounds with the card, Dick’s finger strayed to an unnamed face. 

“Who’s that?” Dick asked. Bruce blinked. His face seemed to grow heavier. 

“That’s Jason,” Bruce said. “He’s your brother.”

“Oh,” Dick said. He searched for words to ask why Bruce had never mentioned him before, but nothing formed on his lips. Part of him wanted to just abandon the question completely. He’d noticed early on that Bruce always skipped over that face, but he was too afraid to ask why. 

He gave Bruce a curious look. Bruce cleared his throat

“Jason… lives out of town. He works a bit differently from us.”

Dick had no idea what to make of that.

“Older?” he asked. Bruce’s eyebrows shot up, then his eyes softened in amusement.

“Younger by two years,” Bruce said. “Three when November comes around.”

Dick was surprised, since Jason seemed considerably larger than the Dick in the photograph (who smiled at the camera with a face irreconcilable with the one Dick saw in the mirror), though he supposed if they were all adopted, height meant very little. He felt like expressing this thought to Bruce, but once again, his mouth failed him.

Dick felt a warm hand enclose his wrist.

“Let’s go over this again,” Bruce stated and guided Dick’s hand over to Tim.

*

Just as Bruce promised, Dick’s siblings returned two days after their last visit. Both of them avoided Dick’s eyes, and Dick wondered if it was because of how he looked. Dick caught his own reflection more than a handful of times in the bathroom mirror and the empty TV screen. He knew the right side of his body still wasn’t complying, still oddly limp. He knew his hair was gone, revealing the left side of his skull, which was heavily scarred and still a bit swollen. The kids were young. Perhaps they were just scared. 

“Bad?” Dick joked, raising a shaky hand to pat his skull. Tim, the older one, shook his head vehemently. 

“No, no… but you’re skinny. _Really_ skinny,” Tim said, wrinkling his nose. “What are they feeding you?”

“Apples,” Dick said.

“Apples?” Tim frowned, looking to Bruce. 

“Applesauce,” Bruce supplied. “A lot of applesauce.”

Dick studied his hands. Perhaps it wasn’t his appearance. After all, Bruce told him they had visited when Dick was in the ICU. Dick presumed he had looked worse. Was it his speech, then?

“You need to eat,” the smaller boy said. His name was on the tip of Dick’s tongue, but Dick just couldn’t conjure it. “How can you be Nightwing if you don’t eat?”

“He needs more mobility with his jaw before he can move on to more solid foods,” Bruce said. “We can’t risk choking.”

Not to mention Dick had enough trouble picking up food as it was. 

“Can you walk yet?” the boy continued. He turned to Bruce. “Father, when can he walk?”

“Chill out,” Tim said, but he too looked at Bruce expectantly. Bruce turned to Dick.

“Not yet, but soon,” Bruce said. “Right, Dick?”

The physical therapists were still working with him on standing, and thus far, he hadn’t been very successful. His little brothers looked at him with big eyes. Bruce’s stare seemed to bore holes in his head.

“Soon,” Dick repeated. Bruce nodded approvingly. 

*

At night, Dick dreamed. He remembered little in the morning other than shades of light and temperature. He knew there was warmth - the sort of hot humid press that comes from orange stage lights and thick crowds, from rope rubbing friction into his palms. Sometimes, he thought he could smell salted popcorn, or dark caramel. Then, always, a gust of cold wind swept through, and he’d wake up to the hospital pillow pressed against his cheek.

The first dream Dick managed to remember was of a boy, maybe sixteen, who simply sat at Dick’s bedside in an unknown bedroom, glaring at him. Dick didn’t know who he was or why he was there. An apology bubbled on Dick’s lips. They boy seemed angry, and Dick felt that it was his fault. No words ever surfaced, and the boy eventually shook his head and left. 

*

The next time Bruce visited, it was at night. 

“We’re going to walk,” he stated. Dick stared at him. 

“How?” Dick finally asked. At that, Bruce swept aside the covers. Dick hugged himself for warmth. Bruce pried his arms away. 

“Hold onto my shoulders,” Bruce stated, leaning down. Hesitantly, Dick reached out his left arm, hand gripping Bruce’s shoulder tightly. His right arm drifted upward, unable to rise to Bruce’s height. Bruce brought it up to rest on his other shoulder. “Now, your legs,” Bruce instructed, and Dick slowly swept his legs off the bed. When his hospital gown climbed up his thigh, Bruce helped yank it down. Dick’s socked feet touched the floor. It was cold. 

“Now stand.”

Dick shakily extended his legs. His muscles burned. His breaths rattled in his lungs. He never realized Bruce was so tall or so big. His shirt smelled like coffee. 

“Take a step,” Bruce said, a little softer this time. Dick led with his left, the leg that was easier to move. All the weight went to his right leg. He fell. 

Bruce caught him before his knees could hit the ground. His grip hurt a bit around Dick’s ribs. 

“It’s okay. We’ll do it like this,” Bruce said. “Take another step. Right this time.”

Dick looked down at his socked feet. 

“I don’t know,” Dick said. 

“Try,” Bruce insisted.

Dick stared at his feet. Since waking, his right leg had been numb, acting more like baggage that came with his body than a limb. The therapists had been working on him gaining enough strength so he could stand, but his right leg always gave out. It shouldn’t be any different now - though, Dick supposed, he did have Bruce’s arms around him, so tight he might bruise, but so tight he couldn’t fall. 

Dick willed his right foot to just _move_. To his surprise, it did. Then he took another step. And another. 

When he looked up, Bruce was smiling. All the wrinkles seemed to fade away, even beneath the jaundice glare of the ceiling lights. His face felt as large as the moon, eclipsing Dick’s entire vision. Dick laughed breathlessly.


	2. Chapter 2

IV.

After two weeks in rehab, the doctors finally let Dick go home. Bruce brought unfamiliar clothes that smelled of something far more intimate than the bland antiseptic of the hospital. As Bruce helped Dick pull on the sweater, a strange look overcame his face. Dick wondered if his former self would have recognized the look.

Bruce steered Dick’s wheelchair out of the hospital. Dick felt uncomfortable with Bruce out of his sight. His peripheral vision had decreased on his right side, but he could feel stares follow him. There were so many people. 

The outside air was cold. Harsh. Biting. Nothing like the cool air conditioning inside that blew softly against Dick’s skin. Dick trembled. Bruce paused outside the revolving main doors, shrugging off his coat and draping it over Dick’s shoulders. The coat held the same smell as Dick’s new clothes. 

The winter sun was out, thin and yellow. Bruce stopped before a sleek, black car, pausing briefly to consider logistics. Dick read the license plate: B44 NYO. 

“Do you want to sit up front?” Bruce asked. Dick nodded. 

His right leg still hadn’t gained much mobility, despite the therapists and Bruce’s best efforts. Nonetheless, he attempted to navigate into the passenger’s seat himself, wrists turning pink in strain as he tried to support all his weight on the armrests. Bruce sighed and lifted him up.

“I can do it,” Dick said. The words came to him quite easily. He found that words were much easier when he was saying something he didn’t have to think hard about. Bruce deposited him in the passenger’s seat.

“We’ll work on it when it isn’t cold,” Bruce said, shutting the door. Dick waited, listening to the sound of Bruce folding up the chair and throwing it into the trunk.

During the drive, Dick felt Bruce glance at him repeatedly. Dick supposed Bruce expected him to recognize the scenery. Perhaps his past self would be horrified to find that he had forgotten all the familiar roads and well worn bends. He recognized a few buildings as they passed downtown, though belatedly. He’d seen them through his room window in the hospital, just never from a bug’s eye view. 

When they approached the manor, Bruce was staring at him blatantly. Dick soaked in the staggering height of the building and the sharp edges of grey stone and, finding it all unfamiliar, averted his eyes. Bruce sighed. 

*

Before dinner, Dick developed a headache and opted to go to bed. Bruce didn’t miss the look of relief that flitted through Cass’s face when he shared the news. So, they had dinner with just the four of them, Alfred close by in the kitchen sealing up the separate soup he’d prepared for Dick. The rest of them had spaghetti and brussel sprouts. As Bruce chewed, he realized how hazardous spaghetti could be. Possibly a death sentence. 

“We’re still going on patrol, right B?” Tim asked halfway through dinner. It had been quiet before. Only the scraping of silverware sharp in their ears. The manor was too far from the roadway to even catch the sound of a passing car. 

“Of course,” Bruce said. He watched Tim and Cass share a glance. “Why wouldn’t we?”

Cass returned to her plate.

“Doesn’t…” Tim began hesitantly. “Doesn’t someone need to watch over Dick?”

Bruce stared at Tim dumbly. He hadn’t thought of that. 

“Alfred-” Bruce began, but realized Alfred would be in the cave. With Dick, Jason, and Stephanie missing from their line up (Bruce hadn’t seen Jason in months and Stephanie was nursing a fractured wrist), they couldn’t sacrifice any more muscle. 

“He can sleep in the cave,” Bruce decided. “Alfred will keep watch.”

Again, his children glanced at each other. Even Damian joined them. Bruce, having been an only child, wondered how it was that three people could know each other’s thoughts so instinctively.

“What?” Bruce asked. “Is something wrong?”

His words cut their tied gazes like knife to string. Heads, slack, dropped back down to dinner plates. 

“Nothing,” Cass said.

“Everything’s good,” Tim added. 

*

Dick’s room was dark until Bruce opened the door, the hallway light elongating over the carpet and painting a stripe across Dick’s bed. Dick’s figure was so small beneath the covers that, for a second, Bruce felt twenty-two again, ready to wake his eight year old ward for school. The sound of footsteps downstairs, three pairs of them, snapped him out of it. 

“Chum,” Bruce called softly, approaching the bed. Despite the block of light pressing into his cheek, Dick didn’t stir. Bruce felt an acute tightening in his chest. He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers closing over a fistfull of blanket. “Dick,” Bruce said again, more urgently, shaking Dick’s shoulder. The bed wobbled. The springs squeaked. Dick’s head lolled slightly to the left. Bruce gripped Dick’s chin, forcing it towards the light. A strange, guttural sound clawed its way out of Bruce’s throat. 

“Wha?” Dick murmured, startled. His eyes blinked open. “Bruce?”

Bruce exhaled. He realized he was still gripping Dick’s chin. He felt Dick swallow against his fingers. Bruce retreated. 

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “It’s me.”

Dick studied him, eyes squinting from the hallway light. 

“Something… bad?”

Bruce frowned. 

“No, no. I just need to move you downstairs. Alfred will keep watch over you tonight, okay?”

Dick stared at him for a moment. 

“Okay,” he said. 

* 

In the cave, Bruce placed him onto a cot and draped over three blankets. The cot was high above the ground, which brought him a sense of familiarity. It reminded him of his hospital bed. 

Bruce wheeled the cot out near the computer where Alfred was stationed, the elderly man’s eyes scanning through the multiple surveillance screens that climbed up the wall. Small, costumed figures lept through them, capes stretching long behind them. Dick had never been on a rooftop — not in the past eight months, at least, but he thought he could taste the cleaner, crisper air up high on a building and feel the more forceful wind cooling his skin just by looking at the surveillance screens. He watched the small figures until his skull throbbed with the remenants of the headache he had earlier that evening. He turned away and looked up towards the ceiling. He couldn’t quite see the ceiling itself — just darkness and vague silhouettes. Occasionally, the silhouettes moved. He heard the beat of wings. 

“Real?” Dick asked. His voice sounded tiny in the vastness of the cave. Alfred’s chair creaked as he turned. 

“Is what real, Master Richard?”

Dick didn’t understand why Alfred called him Master. He wasn’t sure if he liked being called that. Unfortunately, Dick couldn’t manage to articulate his thoughts, so he had no choice. But Alfred seemed kind enough. He treated Dick with a sense of familiarity.

“Up,” Dick said. The word suddenly hit him. “Bat.”

There was a pause. 

“Are you asking if the bats are real?” Alfred asked. There was weight in his voice. A wetness. He didn’t wait for Dick to respond. “They are indeed real, Master Richard. In fact, you’ve named several. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve all been accounted for, between the lot of you. You have quite the influence on your siblings.”

Dick smacked his lips, tasting a penny on his tongue. He felt quite light, though he’d taken the same amount of pain medication as he always did. Whatever was falling over him felt heavier than sleep. 

“Is your head still hurting you, Master Richard?” Alfred asked. His voice sounded far away. Far away, like those little people jumping on the screens. His family. 

“ _ Hngh, _ ” Dick said. 

“Richard?” Alfred repeated. There was something frightening in his voice. Dick’s eyes drifted up to the ceiling. There was a shifting of shadows. A bat.

*

“What happened,” Bruce demanded, storming into the cave. He shed bits of his armor as he entered. Tim and Damian trailed behind him, Tim attempting to pick up after the fallen articles of clothing. Slouching in fourth was Cass, an agitated look on her face. She had a streak of blood across her cheek, though from the lack of wounds, it appeared to be someone else's. Dick was sitting up in the cot, gaze unsteady. Untied restraints laid across the bed. 

“Didn’t you give him his seizure medication?” Bruce asked, placing a palm on Dick’s head and using his thumb to lift up Dick’s eyelids. He peered into them. Weakly, Dick ducked his head out of Bruce’s grip. His eyes wandered past Bruce. 

“Tim,” Dick slurred. “Cass.” His gaze shifted to Damian. A pause. “Wayne,” Dick said. A strange look overcame Damian’s face. From his slack cheeks, one could probably call it surprise. Then everything tightened.

“Grayson,” Damian replied, and turned on his heel, storming towards the showers. Tim shot Damian’s retreating figure a dirty look, while Cass looked close to following him. Alfred sighed, his face sallow in the cave light. 

“Dr. Rhodes did warn us that it’ll trial and error to get the seizure medication just right,” Alfred said. “I suppose this means a checkup soon.” 

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. Dick squeezed his eyes shut. “Head,” Dick murmured, sounding miserable. Tim shifted his weight on his feet. Cass looked longingly towards the showers.

“Your head hurts?” Bruce said softly, cupping the back of Dick’s neck. He looked over Dick’s head at Alfred. “Book an appointment for tomorrow,” Bruce said. “I don’t want to wait till next week.”

Alfred gave Bruce a tired look. “I’ll see what I can do.”

*

“I want him off the gabapentin,” Bruce stated. Dick sat quietly beside him. Dr. Rhodes had a tired look in her eye, but she smiled nonetheless. She flipped through Dick’s paperwork, zeroing in on his prescriptions. She circled them. Bruce was getting too well acquainted with the stern glide of her pen. 

“Before we get ahead of ourselves,” Dr. Rhodes said, “Richard — have you been taking your medication as prescribed?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, but Dr. Rhodes still turned to Dick, waiting for an answer. Dick nodded. 

“Dick,” Bruce said. Dick’s jaw tightened. 

“Yes,” Dick said. Dr. Rhodes gave him a sympathetic look.

“Well, before switching medications, I recommend upping the dosage.”

Bruce opened his mouth to interject.

“Gabapentin is a very promising medication, Mr. Wayne,” Dr. Rhodes said, beating him to it. “It has worked wonders for several of my patients. If no significant side effects have arisen, I want to keep Richard on Gabapentin. For at least three months. It takes time for some medications to kick in.”

Bruce made an unpleased noise in his throat, but nodded. Dr. Rhodes clicked her pen. 

V.

Dinner that night was lasagna. Dick had soup. Again. With his wheelchair pulled up to the table, he looked small. Bruce made a mental note to have Dick sit in a chair next time. 

Like all families, the Waynes had a strict seating arrangement that all members, no matter how estranged, obeyed. Once in a while, Bruce found himself musing how deeply ingrained the seating arrangement was. They could be at a table clothed gala dinner or a rotted picnic table, and somehow Dick would find himself opposite Bruce, Tim and Cass on one side and Damian on the other. If Jason was there, he’d seat himself beside Damian, next to Dick, and across from Tim. It was a very strategic seat, Bruce once realized. It put him far from Bruce’s eyesight, gave him easy access to Damian’s plate, allowed him to kick Tim beneath the table, and, when Tim made a sad face, let him avoid any retaliating kicks from Cass.

Tonight, though, their seating arrangement had changed. Afraid that Dick would choke, even on soup, Bruce wheeled Dick into the spot next to him, forcing Damian to scoot further down. Each child that entered the dining room gave a small pause at the doorway before silently sitting down. 

The new seating arrangement provided unforeseen benefits when Dick had difficulty lifting his spoon. Bruce watched from his periphery as Dick’s hand shook, the broth slipping out of the spoon. Flecks of it darkened the table cloth. The metal made a loud  _ clink _ whenever it encountered the side of the bowl. Bruce didn’t know when to butt in and hesitated before he took each bite. The others were staring. Bruce cleared his throat. 

“Dick,” he rumbled quietly. Dick looked up with desperate eyes. Quietly, Bruce scooted his chair closer and took the spoon out of Dick’s hand. He dipped the spoon into the broth, then brought it to Dick’s lips. Dick hesitated.

There was a loud chair squeak. Tim was standing. 

“I… I need to do homework,” Tim said. Bruce stared at him dumbfounded. Tim’s plate was still half full. 

“You haven’t finished your dinner,” Bruce stated obviously. Dick stared down at his bowl. Tim kept his eyes steadily on Bruce. 

“I’m full,” Tim said. “I have a lot of homework. I need to go.”

He turned around swiftly, forgetting to push in his chair. They listened to his footsteps thunder up the stairs. Slowly, Cass dragged the chair back in with an ankle hooked around one of the legs. 

  
  
  


VI.

Dick always thought standing would feel more freeing. Perhaps it was the harness wrapped around his everything and tied to the ceiling that took away that illusion. He tightly gripped the plastic railings at his sides. 

“Try to relax more,” the physical therapist, Anusha, said. Dick let out a shaky breath and loosened his fists a fraction. The harness straps dug into his armpits. Everything in the PT room smelled vaguely of sweat. “Good, good,” Anusha said. “Now, I’m going to turn on the treadmill, okay?”

Dick swallowed. He knew this day was coming. Since day one, the treadmill silently occupied the center of the PT room. Dick couldn’t quite yet stand, but they were moving on to walking. “It’ll help with the standing,” Anusha had said. Dick wasn’t so sure about that. Catching Dick’s hesitance, Anusha patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’re going slow, and I’ll be right next to you.”

The speed _ was _ slow. Practically two miles per hour. And Anusha did stand close. More specifically, she sat on the edge of the treadmill and began moving his legs for him with her own two arms. Dick tried to force some strength into his legs, hating the fact that he wasn’t so much walking as being walked. Whether or not Anusha sensed any difference, she kept walking him. After two minutes, when Anusha asked if he wanted to continue, Dick shook his head. 

Back at the manor, Dick collapsed down onto the couch. It was late afternoon, and Dick felt drowsiness creep up on his brain. The rest of the manor was quiet, with Tim and Damian at school and Cass presumably hidden. He closed his eyes, but could feel Bruce’s gaze like a weight on his chest. 

“Your therapist told me you still can’t stand,” Bruce said. There was a stiltedness to his voice that told Dick he should really open his eyes, but he kept them closed. “Dick, I’m talking to you.”

Dick screwed his eyes shut tighter. He just wanted to sleep. Maybe turn the TV on too, for a little white noise. He wondered what Bruce would do if he asked him to hand over the remote. 

“Dick,” Bruce said again. “Listen when I am talking to you.”

Dick reluctantly opened his eyes. Bruce had his arms crossed and was practically leaning over him. 

“What,” Dick snapped. Bruce’s face hardened. 

“Sometimes, I get the feeling you don’t even want to get better,” Bruce said. “You know your therapist assigned you practices to go over at home? I haven’t seen you do any of them.”

Dick stared up at the ceiling fan, thinking of the manuals Anusha handed him, which he stuffed into the nightstand beside his bed. 

“Tired,” Dick said truthfully. Bruce’s face didn’t soften. 

“I know you’re tired, but recovery is about persistence, Dick. If I stopped whenever I got tired, I wouldn’t be Batman. You wouldn’t have become Nightwing.” Bruce let out a long sigh. “Think of all the lives you could save again, Dick, if you would just put in a little effort.”

Dick imagined Nightwing, the vague, airborne figure in Dick’s mind who Dick had never so much as seen a picture of. 

“I’m talking to you,” Bruce said. Dick closed his eyes and rolled over. He felt Bruce’s presence linger, and wondered if his face was twisted in anger or lax in disbelief. Either way, Bruce eventually left, and Dick let himself relax. 

*

When Dick woke, he was in his room. The window blinds were drawn shut, but he could tell it was dark outside. No hallway light crept through the crack beneath his door. His head swiveled to the bedside clock: 2:32 AM. Dick frowned. He had been asleep for… ten hours? Dick looked down at his stomach. Strangely, he didn’t feel hungry. 

For a moment, Dick was surprised he wasn’t down at the cave. Then he saw the small camera sitting on his nightstand, its small blue light blinking at him. Dick looked at it in disbelief. With more strength than he’s felt in a while, Dick tugged the camera out of its outlet. The blue light blinked dead. Dick fell back against his pillows and closed his eyes. 

Two hours later, Dick awoke to a figure leaning over him. He didn’t have time to even register the danger before the figure clamped a calloused hand over Dick’s mouth. “ _ Shh, _ ” the figure whispered. Dick felt sharp panic seize his chest and jabbed an elbow out, feeling it connect with bone. 

“ _ Fuck -  _ Jesus, Dickie, calm down,” the figure said. A lamp suddenly clicked on, and Dick was greeted with the sight of someone he’d only ever seen frowning in a Christmas sweater. His mouth began to open, a name on the tip of his tongue, but the other man, seeming to gain his first proper view in the lamplight, beat him to it.

“Holy shit,” the man — Jason — said. Dick cocked his head at him, taking in the leather jacket, the wind swept hair, and the outdoor smell that clung to him. After freezing for a moment, Jason crowded up next to Dick’s bedside, placing a palm on Dick’s cropped hair. Dick held still. Jason’s hand felt warm. “I never thought I’d ever see your scalp,” Jason said, his tone marveling. Then he backed up, eyes scanning all over Dick. He let out a heavy breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Jesus, Dickie. You got fucked.”

“Jay-son,” Dick said slowly, testing the name on his tongue. Jason gave him a weird look, then snorted. 

“So Replacement wasn’t lying. Bruce actually told you about me,” Jason said. “Tell me, what did he say? Did he tell you how your hot pants got me killed? Or that I don’t even visit on holidays?”

Dick didn’t know what to say to that. He figured it was some inside joke Dick was no longer privy to. 

“I…” Dick began. “You… out of town.” He paused. “Younger. Two years.”

The strange look reappeared on Jason’s face, this time with something close to fear. 

“Why are you talking like that?” Jason asked. 

The word sprang to Dick’s mind — Dick’s least favorite word, one he could hardly say half the time. 

“A-pha-sia,” Dick said. Jason frowned.

“Like… you can’t talk?”

Dick closed his eyes. “No,” he said, but didn’t know how to explain it beyond that. He just wanted to sleep. He let his head fall back on the pillows, feeling the gentle sensation of falling as he drifted towards sleep. 

“But,” Jason continued, voice small, small enough that without looking at him and his six foot something frame, Dick could almost picture him as a child, “it can be fixed?”

Dick felt a small breeze against his cheek, and realized the window was cracked open. So that explained how Jason got in. 

“Maybe,” Dick said, and felt sleep force him under. 


	3. 3

VII.

Cass found Tim crouched at the top of the stairwell, peering between the stair bannister bars at the living room below him. Cass gently kicked his flank. Tim looked up at her with a sharp scowl before seeming to realize it was her. 

“What you doing,” Cass asked. Tim nudged his chin to the floor below, where Dick was asleep on the living room couch. “He’s been there for hours,” Tim whispered. “After a full night’s sleep. He literally got out of bed to sleep on the couch. That’s, like, not good, right?”

Cass shrugged. She wasn’t exactly well versed on brain injury recovery. Her gut stirred uncomfortably. 

“Like, what if he’s having a stroke?” Tim asked anxiously. “You know clot busters only work if you get them to the hospital four hours in?”

“He’s fine,” Cass said. She tried peering further over the railing to get a good look at Dick’s face, but he had it hidden in the crook of his elbow. 

“But he’s had surgery,” Tim continued. 

“Eight months ago,” Cass added. 

“You know surgeries can increase risk for stroke?”

“Then check.”

“But what if he’s just sleeping?” Tim asked. “I don’t want to wake him.” He gave her a pleading look. Cass narrowed her eyes. 

“No,” she said. Tim huffed. 

* * *

It was three in the afternoon on a Saturday, and Damian was utterly bored. Though he knew how to drive, he also knew that the local law enforcement valued licenses over true skill. 

Damian was also deeply annoyed that Grayson was sleeping. Still. 

Not that Grayson could really take him out anywhere in his state, but the least Grayson could do was watch a movie with him, or play a video game. After eight months in a coma, all Grayson seemed to want to do was continue sleeping. Damian already wasted too many hours idling by Grayson’s bedside. It was Grayson’s turn to step up and make up for their lost time. 

With an armful of game disks, Damian plopped down in front of the TV, with Grayson still asleep behind him on the couch, and began booting up the battered old Wii. He inserted Mario Kart, prepared two controllers, and jammed down on the volume button. When music began playing, Damian cringed at the volume. Behind him, Grayson didn’t so much as flinch. Damian frowned, irritated. Upstairs, footsteps thundered toward the stairs. 

“What the hell, Damian? Turn it down,” Drake yelled. Grayson didn’t stir at that either. Damian scowled up at Drake. 

“Mind your own business,” Damian yelled back, turning back to the screen. Drake huffed most definitely rolled his eyes. Damian heard a door slam upstairs. Damian grabbed the remote, checking to see whether the volume could go up any higher. It couldn’t. 

* * *

By dinnertime, Dick was still on the couch, now with two layers of blankets on top of him, courtesy of Alfred. A jumble of remotes laid on the ground in front of the TV, abandoned. Bruce sat on the edge of the sofa, forehead creased in a frown.

“You need to eat,” Bruce stated. Dick was turned away, facing the backrest of the couch. 

“ _Mmh_ ,” Dick groaned. Bruce shook his shoulder, getting an agitated click of the tongue in return.

“If you’re depressed, you need to tell me,” Bruce said. Dr. Rhodes had warned him of depression. Bruce just didn’t think it’d kick in so early. 

“No,” Dick grumbled, shifting a bit. “Just tired.”

“That’s a symptom of depression.”

“No.”

Bruce let out a heavy breath. He considered walking away, but straightened his shoulders in stead. He wasn’t going to lose this battle. 

“Get up,” Bruce commanded. When Dick didn’t comply, he pulled aside the covers and hooked his hands under Dick’s arms, pulling him up.

“ _Hey,_ ” Dick cried, shrugging as much as he could out of Bruce’s grip. Bruce let go suddenly, letting Dick fall back against the couch. 

“Either you sit still and let me help you into your wheel chair or I’m dragging you just like that to the dining room. Do you hear me?”

Dick stared up at him, and Bruce couldn’t quite interpret the look in his eyes. They looked almost… wondering. 

“Yes,” Dick finally said, looking down. 

VIII.

“B, are you ready?” Tim asked, appearing in the bathroom doorway. Bruce straightened his tie, eyeing Tim’s neatly pressed flannel, jeans, and socks in the mirror. 

“Ready for what, exactly?” Bruce asked. Tim gave him an accusing look.

“Seriously?” Tim said. 

“Seriously,” Bruce replied with a sigh, letting go of his tie. He turned to look at Tim directly. 

“You promised me yesterday that you’d take me to the library today. At three. As in right now.”

Bruce got a vague flashback of saying yes to someone - Tim or Damian - Tim, apparently, last night at the dinner table. 

“We have a library at home,” Bruce tried, but Tim remained planted in the doorway. 

“Yeah, but what about atmosphere?” Tim said. Bruce shot him a bewildered look. 

“And why can’t you drive yourself?”

Tim shuffled his feet. “I haven’t renewed my license.”

“And why is that?”

Tim gave an aggrieved shrug. “Maybe ‘cause I’m too _busy_ with other things, B,” he said pointedly. “Also, how am I supposed to renew my license if I can’t drive to the DMV?”

Despite his attempt to take up the doorway, Bruce easily wriggled past. He heard Tim’s footsteps follow him out the room. 

“I’m taking Dick to his hospital visit,” Bruce said. “The library can wait.”

“You _promised_ ,” Tim said, and Bruce frowned at how upset Tim sounded. 

“Tim, it’s just the library. Get someone else to drop you off.”

Bruce stopped abruptly at the end of the hall, where Damian was waiting with his backpack slung over his shoulder. Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. Tim peeked around Bruce’s side. 

“Father,” Damian addressed. “Are you ready?”

“For what,” Bruce asked dejectedly. Damian rolled his eyes.

“My parent-teacher conference. It’s today.”

* * *

In the end, Bruce pulled Alfred out of his grocery shopping to rush home and take Damian to the conference. He could do little for Tim other than send him an apologetic look before he rushed out the doorway, Dick in tow. 

At the clinic, Bruce tapped his foot impatiently as the nurses checked Dick’s blood pressure and took his weight. He finally stopped when Dr. Rhodes stepped in, clip board in hand. 

“So, how have you two been?” she asked. Bruce scooted forward in his chair.

“He’s depressed,” Bruce stated. Dr. Rhodes opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned to Dick.

“Not,” Dick said. He looked at Dr. Rhodes. “Feel fine.”

“He says he’s fine,” Bruce said, “but he’s been practically sleeping non stop for the past twenty four hours. I understand that he needs rest, but the amount of sleep he has been getting is excessive.”

“Just — just…”

“Tired?” Dr. Rhodes offered. Dick nodded. 

“It’s more than just the sleep though. He’s also been ignoring his exercises,” Bruce said. “He’s losing motivation.”

Dick said nothing, instead closing his eyes tightly. Bruce thinned his lips, staring down at his knuckles. Dr. Rhodes glanced between them.

“Well, depression is a very reasonable concern, Mr. Wayne,” Dr. Rhodes began, “but I would like to ask a few more questions.”

Bruce nodded silently. 

“Richard, have you been taking your seizure medication?”

Dick nodded. 

“Dick,” Bruce said. 

“Yes,” Dick mumbled. Dr. Rhodes looked troubled, but continued. 

“And have you experienced any seizures?” she asked.

“No.”

Dr. Rhodes scribbled on her clipboard. 

“Well,” she said, “the medication we have you on — the gabapentin — can cause drowsiness. In fact, that’s a common complaint I get from my patients. I’m suspecting that’s the —”

“You told us to stick with the gabapentin,” Bruce said, frowning. Dr. Rhodes plastered on a tired smile.

“Yes, because it is usually a very compliant medication. Unfortunately, one side effect is drowsiness, and it can be worse for some and better for others. From what you two have described, it sounds like excessive sleep is your primary concern, so I’d say the gabapentin is probably the culprit.”

Bruce glanced at Dick, who was staring down at his lap.

“What do you recommend we do?” he asked. Dr. Rhodes tapped her pen against her knuckle.

“Well, at this point, I’d say we switch medications,” Dr. Rhodes said. She pulled her prescription pad out a drawer. “Keppra is one that works for a lot of people. Not many side effects, and it’s been on the market for a couple of years.”

Dr. Rhodes looked at Bruce expectantly. Bruce reached a hand over, hoping to set it on Dick’s shoulder, but set it on the arm rest of his wheelchair instead. 

“That’s fine,” he said. 

* * *

“So, he’s better now?” Tim asked. He was seated at the kitchen table when Bruce got home, a stack of books at his side. Bruce had wheeled Dick to the living room, where Dick promptly fell asleep in the couch.

“It’ll take a week or so,” Bruce said, staring at the books. _The Traumatized Brain. Living with Traumatic Brain Injury. Talking About Aphasia._ “He needs to gradually wean off the gabapentin before starting the…” Bruce glanced at the prescription still clutched in his hand. “The keppra. So that means we have to be careful of any seizures before then.”

Tim sat up a little straighter. 

“But once he’s on the keppra, he’ll be back to normal?” Tim paused. “Or, I mean. He’ll sleep less?”

Bruce hummed in response, sticking the prescription to the fridge with a magnet. He glanced again at Tim's books.

"Who took you to the library?" Bruce finally asked. Tim didn't look up, but his eyes paused briefly on the page.

"Jason," he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a particularly long chapter... kinda trying to get into the funk of writing again. Sorry y'all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!


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